Читать книгу In The Enemy's Arms - Pamela Toth - Страница 8

“What is he doing here?”

As Mari Bingham peeled off her gloves, she glared at the detective staring back at her through the glass divider. It seemed to Mari as though every time she turned around, even here at the midwifery clinic where she was the director, she noticed Bryce Collins watching her. If not for his gold shield, she would have filed a stalking complaint against him.

“He’s been waiting to talk to you.” The receptionist lowered her voice, her expression concerned. “Is everything okay, Dr. Bingham?”

“Of course, Heather. Everything’s fine.” Mari dredged up a smile. She’d been called in to the clinic at 2:00 a.m. and it was now midmorning. Even though she was the director, she still saw patients. Mari considered the joy of bringing a healthy baby into the world well worth a few hours of lost sleep, but this delivery had been a long one and the last few weeks had been difficult for her.

Mari had been meaning to confront Detective Collins, but not here, not now, and certainly not without a shot of caffeine to hone her senses.

In her search for decent coffee, she had come straight from the birthing room without bothering to freshen up first. She must look awful—her face pale and shiny, her hair falling from its hasty bun and her light green scrubs stained and wrinkled.

From previous experience, she knew all too well that neither a carefully made-up face nor a freshly laundered outfit would have lessened the defensiveness she always felt around the man advancing on her now with the determination of a cougar stalking a deer. He had been after her for weeks.

Despite the rumors and speculation surrounding Mari, she refused to cooperate and play the role of prey. She just wanted the investigation to be over, the real criminals caught and her reputation cleared.

“Please show the detective to my office,” she told Heather as Bryce narrowly avoided tripping over a toddler pushing a tiny grocery cart across the waiting room. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Mari didn’t care how long he’d been cooling his heels. He should know from his last attempt at interrogating her here that the Foster Midwifery Clinic was a busy place. Besides, she desperately needed some coffee and a bagel, if there were any left over from the morning break. Except for a few of the tiny breath mints she always carried with her, she hadn’t eaten a thing since dinner last night.

Let Heather deal with Bryce’s intimidation tactics for the moment. It would be good practice for the girl.

As Mari made her escape, she swallowed a yawn. It was no surprise that she hadn’t been sleeping well, even on the few nights that one of her patients didn’t go into labor at 2:00 a.m. Worrying about who might be evil enough to steal drugs from the clinic and then let someone else—her—take the blame was wearing Mari down. The last thing she needed today was another visit from Bryce Collins.

She knew he had stopped loving her a long time ago, but was it possible that he still resented her enough to send her to prison—even if it was for something she hadn’t done?

Detective Collins had been studying Mari through the glass divider. He watched the receptionist with the eye-popping blue hair give Mari the no doubt unwelcome news of his presence. As he got to his feet, Mari’s gaze collided with his. Even with her spine stiffened, she looked tired.

Was her obvious fatigue merely a by-product of her chosen profession? Becoming a doctor, an obstetrician, had been a goal he hadn’t been willing to support. In fact, when they were younger, Bryce had done everything in his power to dissuade her from pursuing a career in medicine. Judging from her current wilted appearance, it appeared that her job was taking its toll.

Grudgingly Bryce supposed the investigation—his investigation—might also be partly to blame. Was a guilty conscience keeping her awake at night? Did she feel sorry for the victims of the switched pain medication or was it merely the fear of getting caught supplying drugs to the black market that dimmed her normal sparkle?

His determination to find answers was the reason he’d spent the last hour waiting to see her. He’d been surrounded by chattering mommies, fussing babies and whiny toddlers. One of the latter had just wiped a mashed-up cookie on the knee of Bryce’s slacks.

Given a choice, he would rather be chasing a suspect through a dark alley full of pit bulls.

Instead of waiting for him, Mari walked away. He nearly ran down two little kids when he chased after her, swearing under his breath.

With her clipboard clutched to her chest, the blue-haired receptionist headed him off while Mari disappeared around a corner. Biting back his impatience, Bryce glanced at the girl’s name tag.

“Heather, I told you that I need to speak to Dr. Bingham,” he said, doing his best to soften his request with a smile.

“She asked that you wait in her office. I’ll take you there right now and the doctor will be with you in just a little while.”

So far, he had nothing to show for the morning that was rapidly slipping away except for the dried cookie on his knee. “Great,” he replied, his annoyance oozing out. “It’s not as if I’ve got anything better to do with my time.”

Below the silver hoop that pierced Heather’s brow, her black-rimmed eyes widened. With a huff of annoyance, she spun on her heel, leaving him no choice but to follow.

The case was getting a fair amount of publicity and he had grown up in Merlyn County, so people recognized him. Today he ignored the curious glances of the patients and the disapproving stares from some of the clinic staff as he focused on getting his interview with his number-one person of interest.

The receptionist opened the door marked Marigold Bingham, M.D., Director and stepped aside. Heather’s frosty expression didn’t thaw, but it actually went rather well with her icy-blue hair.

“You can wait in here,” she said. “Do you want coffee?”

Whatever they served here at the clinic had to be an improvement on the bilge at the station. For an instant he was tempted, but he didn’t want to be distracted.

“No, thanks,” he said reluctantly. “I’m fine.”

She must have been worried that he might snoop through Mari’s paperwork, because she hesitated with her hand on the doorjamb. It was only when he sat down facing the cluttered desk and withdrew his notebook from his jacket pocket that she left.

Unfortunately for Dr. Bingham, the obvious loyalty of her staff was no indication whatsoever of her guilt or innocence. The grim fact was that someone who worked here was stealing Orcadol, a popular and powerful new prescription painkiller, and selling it on the street. From a personal point of view, and because Bryce had known her for so long, he was reluctant to believe that Mari could be involved in something as despicable as drug trafficking. As a detective with the Merlyn County Sheriff’s Department, it was his sworn duty to follow the trail of evidence that pointed relentlessly in her direction.

He scrubbed one hand over his jaw, feeling its roughness. He needed a shave. A stakeout on an unrelated case had gotten him up at dawn, but the perps never showed. Sometimes his job sucked.

Sheriff Remington, a crusader against illegal drugs, was growing impatient with Bryce’s lack of progress in the Orcadol case. Just this morning the sheriff had asked Bryce for a status report, but there had been damn little to say.

Over the course of his career, Bryce had witnessed time and again the damage caused by drugs; the broken, wasted lives, the crimes committed in order to feed habits gone out of control, the families ripped apart and the children hurt by addiction. Was it really possible that someone like Mari, who had taken an oath to save lives, could be responsible for the recent increase of the illegal supply of Orcadol, or Orchid, as it was called on the street?

Nothing surprised Bryce anymore. Greed was a powerful motivator and the word was out that Mari was desperate for money to support the construction of her pet project, a biomedical research facility. The question that ate at him was just how far would she go in order to get it?

Unless Bryce was willing to shoot holes in his own career, he had no choice but to set aside his personal reservations and treat her the same as he would any other suspect. Better in Bryce’s opinion to have him be the one investigating her than Merlyn County’s other detective, Hank Butler. At least with Bryce on the case, she was less likely to become the victim of sloppy police work, questionable shortcuts or even—it had been whispered but never proven—doctored evidence.

“Dr. Bingham to Neonatal. Dr. Mari Bingham to Neonatal, stat!”

Mari was in her office doorway when she heard the summons to the hospital, which was adjacent to the clinic. Bryce had glanced up and was already halfway to his feet when she stopped.

“Sorry, but I have to see about this,” she said, torn between relief at the interruption and concern for whoever needed her. Just this morning Milla Johnson, a midwife at the clinic, had mentioned one of her patients to Mari.

The patient, barely twenty-four weeks pregnant, had been experiencing what she described as twinges. Milla had sounded concerned when she told Mari that the woman’s husband was bringing her in for an exam.

“Don’t leave!” Bryce snapped before Mari could turn away. “I’ve been waiting long enough already.”

“Apparently not, Detective,” she contradicted. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Ignoring his muttered curse, she hurried down the hall toward the sky bridge to the hospital.

Waiting for her was something he had once refused to do, so it only seemed fair for him to cool his heels now.

Bryce dropped back into the chair, flipping once again through his notes and wishing he hadn’t refused that cup of coffee. He made a couple of calls on his cell phone, pacing the confines of the small office like a caged bear. Mari still hadn’t returned when he was through, so he wandered back out to the main lobby to see if he could get an idea of how long she was going to be held up this time.

Failing to spot Heather, he approached the nurses’ station. An older woman wearing a headset was seated at a computer terminal. As she slid back the glass panel, she met his gaze with a smile.

“Is Dr. Bingham back from the hospital yet?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied, glancing at the badge Bryce held out. “One of our patients was brought to the clinic in preterm labor,” she continued in a low voice. “The poor thing had to be moved to the neonatal ICU at the hospital when her membranes ruptured. Dr. Bingham is likely to be over there for a while.”

Bryce glanced at his watch, unwilling to give up. “I guess I’ll grab a sandwich in the cafeteria,” he muttered, half to himself. “If you see the doctor before I do, tell her I’m looking for her.”

If the woman suspected his reason for seeking Mari out, she didn’t let it show. “I’ll be sure to do that, Detective. Enjoy your lunch.”

When he got back to the clinic after wolfing down a passable meatball sandwich and fries, he approached the same woman again.

“Dr. Bingham is still at the hospital, but you’re welcome to go over there and wait,” she said, pointing. “The quickest way to get there is right across the sky bridge.”

Bryce had been to the hospital on several occasions, but he’d never had a reason to visit the clinic until this investigation had begun. He thanked the woman and headed in the direction she’d indicated.

Babies didn’t interest him much, especially wrinkled preemies who looked like tiny bald men, but he needed to make sure that Mari didn’t elude him again when she got done. The sheriff had made it clear that the next time he asked about the case, Bryce better have some answers.

“Damn, but I wish he’d stayed where he was for another week or two,” Mari muttered as she gazed sadly at the tiny infant. “He’s so underdeveloped.”

If only his mother had come in sooner, the neonatal team would have had the time for more options. Medications, intravenous fluids and simple bed rest often stopped contractions, but once dilation and effacement of the cervix began, labor nearly always progressed to delivery.

No one replied to Mari’s comment.

The hospital, which served three counties, was a level three facility with a fully equipped NICU. In this case, transport to the University of Kentucky research hospital in Lexington might have saved the infant if there had been more time.

Mari was sick at heart, but she needed to be strong and keep her feelings hidden for the rest of the team. Milla, the midwife who had first alerted her to the potential situation and who was also pregnant, was obviously deeply affected by the tragedy.

The neonate had been born with severely underdeveloped lungs, heart and nervous system. Respiratory distress, seizures and intraventricular hemorrhages had contributed to the insurmountable odds. Despite the team’s efforts, the end had come quickly.

Mari’s throat was clogged with tears she dared not shed when she looked at the impersonal wall clock and conceded defeat. “Thank you, everyone,” she added softly.

Milla released a trembling sigh. A hospital resident cursed under his breath and another slammed wordlessly out of the unit.

Mari ignored them, well aware of the frustration, sadness and grief her colleagues experienced whenever this type of thing happened. Before she would be able to share those same emotions and grieve in private for poor Baby Jenkins, she had one more task left to do.

“The parents have to be told,” she reminded Milla, willing the young midwife to be strong. “Are you up for it?” If the tears glistening in Milla’s eyes were to overflow, Mari wasn’t sure she’d able to get through the next few minutes with her own composure intact.

“Yes.” Milla blinked rapidly several times. She cleared her throat. “I’m ready.”

With a silent nod, Mari led the way to the room where the hopeful parents waited. They may have been praying and were certainly hoping for a miracle to save their son. How many times had it been Mari’s duty to break the hearts of people just like this couple?

The hospital and the women’s health clinic that her grandmother had been instrumental in developing weren’t enough to save these high-risk preemies. What Merlyn County, Kentucky, desperately needed was the new research center that Mari was determined to build.

At the door to the birthing suite, she paused and looked at Milla.

“Okay?” Mari asked. She was fully prepared to intercede if the young midwife was too upset. The parents would need the compassion and support of the medical staff, not their tears.

“Yes, thank you.” Milla was dry-eyed, her voice soft but steady.

Allowing her to lead the way, Mari squeezed her eyes shut and composed herself. When she opened them again, she saw Bryce leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. He had been watching her just like a cat with a mouse.

Her gaze locked with his and her face went hot. She knew he had witnessed her moment of vulnerability, but now she sent him a warning glance before following Milla into the birthing suite and letting the door shut behind her.

The parents were huddled together on the bed, their hands tightly clasped. Mrs. Jenkins’s face was red and puffy, but when she saw the two women, her expression brightened.

Mr. Jenkins managed a wobbly smile. “How’s our boy doing?” His voice was falsely hearty.

Once again, Mari regretted with all her heart the news they brought.

“I’m so sorry,” Milla said softly. “We did everything we could, but his problems were too extensive. He didn’t make it.”

The rest of her explanation was drowned out by Mrs. Jenkins’s wrenching sobs.

Outside in the hallway, Bryce waited impatiently for Mari to come out. He wondered how much longer she intended to avoid him.

From behind the closed door, an anguished wail sliced through his thoughts like a surgeon’s scalpel. The delivery that Mari had been summoned to must have somehow gone wrong.

No wonder she had looked so grim when he saw her. His presence in the hall probably hadn’t even registered with her.

On more than one occasion, it had been his duty to break the bad news to family members about the victim of a fatal accident or a homicide. It was never easy.

He’d always assumed that doctors, like cops, must develop an ability to insulate themselves in some way from the more tragic aspects of their jobs. Mari’s hide must be as thick as a concrete retaining wall if she could deal with people’s suffering with one hand and dump more Orchid on the streets with the other.

He gritted his teeth and firmed his resolve. If she was guilty, he was going to do everything in his power to bring her down.

Mari knew from sad experience that most of what she and Milla had just told the stunned parents fell on deaf ears. After Milla’s initial statement, they had stopped listening while they struggled to absorb the shock. Later on, they would no doubt have questions as they tried to deal with a deluge of guilt they probably didn’t deserve.

Leaving Milla to console them as best she could, Mari slipped quietly out of the room. Bryce still lurked in the hall like her own personal black cloud, but she was far too vulnerable to deal with him just yet. Beneath her outward calm, she was raging at fate and circumstance, at whatever force that was so callous it could give parents a precious gift and then coldly, indifferently snatch it back again.

If Bryce were to confront her now, smug and superior in his role of noble law enforcer, she might just jump on him like a crazed lunatic and vent her frustration. If he hadn’t hounded her for weeks, snapping at her heels and giving her nightmares, eroding her sleep with his suspicions, might she have come up with a miracle for Baby Jenkins today?

In her doctor’s brain, Mari knew she had used every bit of medical expertise and equipment available to her. Deep within her woman’s heart, she wondered, as she always did, why every newborn couldn’t be saved.

Bryce straightened away from the wall as she went in the other direction. “Dr. Bingham!”

Mari ignored him, walking faster. She needed a moment alone.

“Mari! Wait up.”

Without slowing her pace, she waved him away. “Not now,” she called over her shoulder, half expecting him to stop her by force.

To her surprise, he allowed her to escape.

With her teeth tightly clenched, she made a beeline for her office. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it as the tears finally spilled over. For a few moments, she indulged her sorrow and frustration with her knuckles pressed to her mouth to stifle the sounds of her defeat.

Gradually her weeping slowed and she regained control of her emotions. Blindly she grabbed the box of tissues on her desk and blotted her face. When she cried, her nose always got red and her skin turned blotchy. Her eyes probably looked as though she’d been on a three-day bender, so she would have to hide out here for a little while longer.

Someone knocked on the door. Before she could speak, it opened and Bryce leaned in. “You okay?”

“Get out,” she snapped.

Instead of complying, he shocked her by coming in and shutting the door behind him. “We need to talk.”

Was he blind or just indifferent?

Mari reached for her phone. “I’m calling security,” she warned as she lifted the receiver.

Dr. Bingham’s threat didn’t stop Bryce, who had faced down worse than an unarmed woman holding a wad of damp tissues. It was the sight of her hazel eyes, awash with tears, that froze him in his tracks like a gun trained on his heart.

Were the tears a ruse by a lawbreaker desperate for time? Or was her devastated expression that of a compassionate healer? So many of the people he had interviewed insisted the latter was true.

“Please, Mari.” He extended his hand. “Don’t call anyone, okay?”

He wasn’t sure if it was his words or his tone that stopped her, but he had no intention of giving her time to reconsider. Nor did he intend to offer comfort, but an impulse he couldn’t control propelled him forward, arms open. Wrapping them around her, he pulled her close.

Prepared for a struggle, he tucked her head under his chin. As he inhaled the scent of her lemon shampoo, a flood of images flashed through his mind. Caught off guard, he did his best to ignore the unwanted memories, as well as his own spontaneous reaction.

Her slight body stiffened, palms braced against his chest. Barely breathing, he waited for her to jerk away, but instead she sighed, going limp. Before she could sink to the floor, he scooped her up into his arms.

He was shocked at how little she weighed. Had the investigation and his pursuit done this to her?

She slipped her arms around his neck, distracting him, and clung like a child as she cried softly against his chest. The feel of her softly rounded breasts sent awareness pumping through him like a drug. For a moment, he shut his eyes and cuddled her close, wanting to absorb everything about her like a giant sponge.

He struggled to keep his head clear, to keep his lungs working. What the hell was he thinking? Where had his objectivity gone? She was a suspect and he was here to question her, not to hold her in his arms while he mooned over her like a teenager.

His silent lecture wasn’t taking hold.

“Shh, baby,” he murmured, ignoring his own tap-dancing pulse. “It’s okay.”

The sound of his voice jerked her head up. Her dark lashes were clumped together. Her eyes were reddened and wet, the skin beneath them blotchy and waxen.

When her lips parted on a tiny sound of protest, his mouth went dry and a giant fist squeezed the breath from his lungs. As they continued to stare at each other, his entire being hummed with awareness.

Neither of them moved, neither blinked. He tried to reason out why kissing her would be a bad idea. A very, very bad idea.

“I think you’d better put me down now.” Her voice cracked the silence. Heat of a different type filled his cheeks, but the rest of him went cold at the thought of what he’d nearly done.

“Of course.” Gently, he stood her on her feet while he scrambled to regain control of the interview—and his own professionalism.

Her chin went up as she circled the cluttered desk. After putting the unmistakable barrier between them, she sat down with her hands neatly folded.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked coolly, as though nothing earthshaking had nearly happened.

Bryce was angry at his own weakness, as well as with Mari’s ability to manipulate him. Years of professional experience told him she was more likely to slip up and reveal the truth while she was tired and emotionally drained. He couldn’t give her the chance to lock her defenses back into place.

“You’ll have to come down to the station with me,” he replied, deliberately hardening his heart against the sight of her tear-streaked face and dark, wounded eyes. “There are some questions I need to ask you about the drugs being stolen from your clinic.”